A Little Discipline
by LateNightConversations
Summary: No matter if they are a ghost you can't stop chasing, or right in front of you, all women are nothing but trouble.
It's half passed midnight when he orders drink number six. This go round he opts for something lighter, a beer, taking the first sip it goes down like water; unlike the previous bourbon he had slugged back. It didn't matter however, the night was young, he had no where to be, and the Bebop was within walking distance of the bar. No harm, no foul.

Music piped in from overhead was muddied by the mumbled conversations of the few patrons that remained in the bar, and the clinking of glass wear being put away for the night by bar staff that probably had somewhere better to be, besides wallowing in the emptiness of the last few hangers on. The words and melody of the song where all but a faint whisper amidst the faint buzzing in his ears.

Lighting a cigarette, he inhaled deeply, his eyes focusing on a scab on the back of his hand, it's origin a mystery. Perhaps it had occurred yesterday while collaring a small fry bounty. Or maybe it had come from cleaning his gun, or messing around with a wrench under the Swordfish. Perhaps even it had come from finger nails, as he had wrestled away the last can of beer from the Bebop's sparse fridge from the desperate clutches of Faye. He really couldn't be all that sure.

Draining the rest of his beer in a long gulp, he signaled the weary looking bartender for another. Fingers, slightly dirty with the residue of engine grease, greedily pulled back on the darkened patch of dried blood as a fresh beer was deposited on the well worn bar top before him.

Exhaling a long drag from his cigarette, he watched as bright red blood formed a small pool, brilliantly contrasting against olive toned skin, the bluish grey tint of smoke dancing lightly across the scene. The blood was quick to begin congealing, the ghostly tendrils of acrid smoke almost seeming to have a magic effect on them, he knew however that it was, like most things in his life, a farce. How quick some wounds were to heal, and some seemed to never close.

Closing his eyes, he rested his forehead against the knuckles of his free hand, his senses flooded with images of cascading honey blonde hair and deep blue eyes, only for the vision to soon twist into violet and emerald green. The only two women in his adult life to be a constant, and how different they could be.

Julia was soft and caring, she was mystique, intrigue, and feminine wiles all wrapped up in one proper package. There weren't words needed when he had been with her. The pieces just fit into place, and yet she was nothing more than a mirage. Her memory seemed to served as nothing more than an homage to days gone by.

Faye was loud and brash, seemingly inconsiderate, and yet he could see right through her to the lost woman underneath. Though through some unspoken set of rules he would never let her know that he saw that. They were sloppy and disjointed, never enough words between them to convey anything. She could be cold and conniving, and he preferred her that way.

Yet at some point the two ideals he had of both women had intersected. The couple times Julia had cared for him in an injured state, and the more than handful of times Faye had done the same, the two women had possessed the same delicate touch in caring for wounds that had been earned through an undeserved sense of invincibility and foolhardiness.

He knew the touch of Julia on a much more intimate level, he could still recall the calm her splayed palms on his back had brought through his body the few times they had shared a bed for the night. Though he would never admit it out loud, there had been a few times in a moment of weakness, he had wondered if Faye could bring on the same feelings in him. He doubted it though, for she was sure to be all nails, demanding, and defiant, even in a moment of intimacy. For that thought he was grateful. The two women would remain vastly different.

The faint heat, and dull burning sensation in his fingers was enough to snap him from the complex thoughts that plagued his alcohol dimmed mind and senses. Stubbing out the remains of the burning filter in the ashtray, he sighed heavily as he took one last long pull from the bottle of beer.

Squinting, he struggled to read the clock on the wall, but in vain. Not that it mattered much, he knew what was awaiting him at home, if that was what you could call it. It was the same every time he went out drinking alone and came back plastered.

The ship would be devoid of all life, except for one lone soul refusing to retire for the night, no matter the hour. Sometimes she would be smoking in silent solace, other times she would be watching mind numbing late night television, or filing her nails, in that vain way she always seemed to do. Regardless of her air of indifference, he knew she was waiting to see that he got home safe. He supposed he should be flattered that someone cared enough, but that was not the case. In the carefully rehearsed roles they played, that's not how it would play out.

He would stumble into the common room, and she would make some snide remark about his current condition. As if on cue he would insult her looks, or lack of help on the last bounty, even if she had perfectly played her part; or he would take a jab at her gambling habits. Then she would storm off to her room, and leave him to his trusty old couch that he loved more than any man should. It was a carefully choreographed dance, and they were professionals at it, enough that there should be a plaque in some esteemed institute commemorating their performance by now .

Placing an unlit cigarette between his lips, he fished around in his wallet for enough woolongs to pay his tab for the night, and a tip that a more sober version of himself probably wouldn't have left. Depositing the money on the bar top he nodded curtly toward the more than exasperated looking bar tender, as he bit down on the filter of the crumpled cigarette and headed out into the cool air of the wee hours of the morning.

* * *

Quietly creeping through the bowels of the old retrofitted fishing trawler, he paused in the main hatchway. Normally by now he would have stumbled into the room, ready for a trade of sharp tongued barbs, but something made him stop.

Leaning heavily against the door frame, he studied the scene before him. Bathed in the pale dim glow of late night TV, she sat bundled up in thread bare blanket studying a magazine clutched in nimble hands. He wondered for a moment if she was really reading the print on each page that she turned, or if she was just biding time until his sorry ass made an appearance.

He should be in the middle of the room, exchanging quips with her, but tonight he seemed glued to the floor, studying her profile. Her hair was unrestrained, covering half her face, though he didn't need to see it to know how she looked.

Eyes that scanned the pages were emerald green, they were piercing. They could bore right into you and cause you to falter for a moment when trying to form a well placed insult. Other times they could look so innocent and lost, that you would reconsider that insult all together.

Her nose was sharp, but in the most feminine way possible. Her lips, sometimes painted crimson red could deliver lines that could cut right down the bone, other times they would turn up into the most devious of smirks. Sometimes, like right now, they were bare, and moved ever so slightly and delicately as she read the words on the page in front of her. She did it all the time when she read, he wondered if she was even aware of it. He was.

It was the most troubling of all her features in fact. Sometimes when she would really lay into him, really going for the throat with the insults, he would tune her out and just stare at her lips. Mostly it was just to further piss her off, but from time to time he found himself wondering just how they would taste, how it would be just to press her into the wall and shut up her incessant bitching with a searing kiss.

He knew he could take it further than that from there. He could coax her into bed with him, he was certain of it, though it wouldn't be an act of love. His heart belonged to another. He loved Julia, at least he thought he did. Maybe he didn't know what love really was in the first place.

Faye would protest at first, simply because she never made anything easy, but he knew she would come with him all the same, declaring that it would be a one time thing, and that it meant nothing to her, but he knew better. For that simple reason alone he knew he could never do it. For as much as he might entertain the idea in an altered frame of mind, he still knew it would mean nothing to him. Even with his indifference toward Faye, he knew she didn't deserve that, behind that tough exterior was a good person.

Finally getting the lead out of his feet, he made his way to the side of couch, ready for life to once more settle into its familiar pattern.

She didn't bother to look up from the magazine as the act began. " Did you drink the place dry? You smell like a damn distillery."

He remained silent, his eyes looking at the article on the pages that now rested on her lap. _8 Tips Guaranteed to Drive Him Wild._ He smirked.

Finally she made eye contact. "What? Are you just going to stand there like a creep?"

Squatting down to get on her level, he snatched the magazine, studying it with feigned interest. " Planning a big date?"

Grabbing it from his grip, she tossed it on to the couch. "What if I am? Not really your business is it?"

"No, I suppose not."

"Did you want something?"

Gripping the edge of the couch to steady himself, he let his mind flash back to the thoughts he had entertained just minutes earlier in the door way, as he leaned in closer. A guarded scowl had etched itself across her face, though he saw the uncertainty just below the surface. "You're not wearing makeup."

"So?"

He leaned in closer, their faces just inches apart. Licking his dry lips, he stared intently at hers. He was more drunk than he thought. Closing his eyes, he pressed his forehead to her temple, her skin felt cool against his alcohol flushed flesh. He wasn't sure how long he stayed that way until he felt the tips of her slender fingers trace over the stubble along his jaw line.

"Spike?"

His eyes shot open, as he pulled away ever so slightly, he let the tip of his nose drag against the side of

Her face as he whispered in her ear, almost seductively. "It's just that it really shows your age."

"You're such an insufferable prick!" Faye was quick to push herself up from the couch. "You know that?"

Gripping the arm of the couch to balance himself, Spike rose to his feet, the grin returning to his face. "I aim

to please." He watched her form as she retreated down the hall. "Night Faye." He was rewarded with

a middle finger in response, as she vanished out of sight.

Tossing the magazine to the floor, he flopped his lanky form onto the battered mustard colored

Cushions, closing his eyes tightly against the slight case of the spins that threatened his senses.

Lacing his hands behind his head he eagerly awaited the open arms of sleep, a place where nothing

was complicated, there was no blue or green, no violet and blonde. Only peaceful darkness awaited him

And he was just fine with that.


End file.
